


when you must be alone

by CaptainAim



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), not any more tho lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAim/pseuds/CaptainAim
Summary: It's been months since the events of November 16th, but Phil could never forget what happened that day.He doubts he ever will.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 136





	when you must be alone

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off a headcanon of mine that Phil used to hum all the time while working but doesn't anymore because it reminds him too much of Wilbur :)

The bees hummed gently in their enclosure, fluttering from flower to flower before darting back into their hives to deposit their honey. Phil watched them buzz with a smile. He’d spent all day tending to the farms, collecting turtle shells and resetting the bee farm’s wiring for the upteenth time. No doubt he’d have to come back out tomorrow morning and do the same thing. He didn’t mind. As long as he was busy with the farms, he didn’t have to think, he could just focus on completing his tasks. He didn’t want to think, it’d only end up in him remembering.

One of the bees floated into the glass surrounding his hive, causing Phil to chuckle quietly to himself. Confused, the bee tried again, and again, bumping itself into the glass in a desperate attempt to reach the open air beyond, before giving up and returning to the nearby flower.

“You and me both, mate,” Phil said quietly.

He missed flying, missed soaring freely across the open sky, miles above everyone else. Missed being able to jump off cliffs and dive into battle without a fear in his mind. Hated catching glimpses of his horribly broken and tattered wings in reflections. Hated knowing what they meant, what they had failed to protect.

Most days, the only thing that kept him going was Technoblade. The younger warrior was annoyingly good at predicting Phil’s moods, and he was always there when Phil started to panic, gently guiding his friend to a safe place and holding him as he relived the particularly painful memories. Phil had done the same for Techno, on nights when the voices were particularly loud. But it didn’t save him from the guilt that came with constantly having to be comforted by his friend.

There were things he hadn’t told Techno, things he had barely admitted to himself. Times he had caught himself panicking over something insignificant that, had it happened a few years ago, wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. Things like a book left partially open to a page about some revolutionary war, or a passing comment by Ranboo about a salmon he’d seen during his wood-gathering, or the quiet melody of one of Techno’s music discs.

It was always the music that got him the most.

Phil had never been much of a musician, and he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but he had always loved music. He loved humming a simple song as he worked, or belting out the lyrics to some dumb tune he’d heard once in a village. And he’d always loved Wilbur’s music, his sad lyrics contrasting with his jaunty guitar, and his beautiful voice ringing through the air, bringing a smile to whoever was nearby.

God, how he missed that.

* * *

“Hey Phil! I finished my new song!”

Phil turned from where he was chopping wood to look at the gangly teenager running towards him, a smile on his face and guitar on his back.

“Well done, mate! Can I hear it?”

Wilbur nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been working on this for weeks dude, it’s got-- oh, well, you’ll see! Maybe. You’re not good at music, so maybe not.”

“I’m great at music, the fuck you on about?” asked Phil indignantly.

“No you’re not, you’re shit!”

Phil made a noise in protest, but it was drowned out by the boy’s continued rant.

“You’re like, properly bad, I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone be as bad at music as you are, Philza Minecraft.”

“Oh-kay.” Phil sighed. “Why don’t you play your song, and we’ll debate my musical abilities later, alright?”

“It’s not a debate if I win instantly,” insisted Wilbur, but he stopped talking long enough to clamber onto a nearby boulder with surprising agility for a teen with too-long limbs.

Phil unfurled his wings, debating if they were necessary for such a small climb, but then decided fuck it and took a flying leap into the air, flapping his wings once to manuever himself next to his son.

“Show-off,” muttered Wilbur, tuning the strings on his guitar.

“Yep.” Phil tucked one wing back in on itself, but kept the other extended to wrap comfortingly around Wilbur. “You gonna sing that song of yours?”

Wilbur chuckled but said nothing, opting instead to pick up his guitar and lean gently into Phil’s wing.

And then he began to sing.

_“The roads are my home as horizon’s my target._

_If I keep on moving, never lose sight of it._

_Treating my memory of you like a fire, let it_

_Burn out, don’t fight it, and try to move on.”_

The very air around them seemed to accompany Wilbur, lifting up his notes and whistling a quiet accompaniment.

_“It’s been sixty weeks since I saw Vienna._

_A bandage and a wide smile slapped against my face._

_I’ll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready,_

_And I’ll put down my roots when I’m dead.”_

A smile spread gradually across Phil’s face, despite the somber lyrics, and he closed his eyes as his son’s music washed over him like the warm summer air. He wished he could freeze time and stay here forever, in this sunny field, surrounded by cheerful birdsong and music and love.

* * *

“Hey, Phil!”

A cheery voice from behind him jolted Phil back into his present surroundings. Turning around, he saw a very excited Ranboo running towards the house, towing a slightly less excited Techno behind him.

“How’s it going, mate?” Phil quickly lowered his hat to partially cover his face.

“Oh, it’s going great! The mansion we went to was in this really weird spot, we had to travel by boat for like fifteen minutes looking for it. And then Techno almost drowned--”

“No I didn’t, I was at full health,” Techno interjected.

“--but then we found it on this super weird island thing! And the loot was super good, we got three totems and a music disc!” continued Ranboo.

Phil chuckled. Ranboo’s energy was infectious, to say the least. 

“I think I’ve got a jukebox stored in one of the chests inside.” Phil tried not to think of why he had stored the jukebox out of sight. “You can have it, if you want.”

“Ok! Thanks Phil!” The enderman hybrid dashed towards the house, leaving Phil alone in the snow with Techno.

“You alright?” Techno asked quietly, after Ranboo was out of earshot.

“Hm? Oh yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

“It’s hard not to be when you’ve got that look on your face.” Techno’s voice was higher than his usual monotone, and there was a note of worry in his voice that Phil hated.

“What look?”

“The I’m-not-okay-but-I-don’t-want-anyone-to-know-that look.”

Phil scowled at him, but Techno just cocked an eyebrow in response. “I’m fine,” he reiterated.

“Mm.” Techno didn’t continue the argument, but he wrapped Phil in a bone-crushing hug. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, but Phil held them back, focusing instead on the arms around him.. He knew Techno was about as far from a hugging person as you could get, but for some reason, he’d always seemed to make an exception for Phil.

“You should probably go check on Ranboo before he comes out here looking for us,” Phil said eventually, pulling himself out of Techno’s grasp. “Don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I doubt he’d judge you.”

“Still.”

Techno sighed, and Phil could practically hear the words he was biting back, but he reluctantly turned away. “You’d better come inside soon, your old man bones can’t handle the cold for that long.”

“Oh you prick,” said Phil, but he smiled anyway. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The bee farm didn’t take that much longer to complete, and Phil was headed back towards their house when he heard the distant notes of a music disc. It was Cats, he recognized, no doubt the disc Ranboo had found in the mansion. The happy tune seemed to float through the air, bouncing with a freedom that had long since left Phil. He heard voices too, Techno and Ranboo’s, engaged in what seemed like a friendly argument, but he couldn’t help but focus on the music playing over them, and where he had been the last time he properly heard the song.

* * *

“Morning, Phil!”

Phil turned from where he was making his tea at the counter. “Wilbur, it’s midday.”

“Eh, close enough.” Wilbur reached across the counter to grab at the bowl of fruit next to Phil.

“You better eat more than just an orange, that is not enough food.”

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna.”

Wilbur started humming as he peeled the orange, and Phil smiled as he bobbed his head in time with the tune.

“What song is that one, again?” he asked as Wilbur paused to take a breath.

“Wh-- Phil, did you just ask me what song this was? Did you just fucking ask what song this was?”

“Not all of us are musically talented, I know it’s not one of yours--”

“It’s Cats! It is literally the most popular song, you’ve got like three discs of it in this house!”

“Do I really?”

“Yes! What, are you going fucking senile? Are you so old you forgot what Cats sounded like?”

“Wil, I am not--”

“Do I need to start planning a fucking retirement home for you? Get you fucking hearing aids or something?”

“Oh my god.”

“I just--” Wilbur was struggling to hold back his laughter at this point. “Phil, I can’t believe you forgot what Cats was.”

“Mm-hm. Are you done with your old man jokes now?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Wilbur turned his attention to his orange, but Phil heard him mutter, “--losing his damn hearing.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought,” Phil snarked, returning to his drink. “Do you want some tea?”

“Yes please!” said Wilbur, with a mouthful of orange.

They ate in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s company as the sun drifted towards early afternoon. Eventually, Wilbur piped up.

“Listen, Phil, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What’s up, mate?”

“I, uh, I was thinking of leaving home soon, for a bit, and just travelling, y’know? Finding some villages, singing some music, all that.”

Phil could feel his heart start to sink. “Wil, I, uh--”

“Not forever! I’ll come back home eventually, I just,” Wilbur was fiddling with his empty teacup, resoutly looking anywhere but Phil. “I want to see the world, do my own thing.”

“Wilbur, you’re so young.”

“I’m seventeen! And I know that’s still, like, pretty young compared to someone like you--” 

Phil glared at him. 

“--but I’m not gonna be doing anything dangerous! I won’t be fighting or anything, I’m just gonna travel and sing, I promise. Besides, we both know you’d rather be out doing your own thing than stuck cooped up here.”

Wilbur was right, of course, not that Phil would ever admit it out loud. He loved WIlbur, loved every moment he’d spent with his son, but he’d be damned if he didn’t get restless sometimes, if he didn’t just want to soar above the clouds and explore the world to his heart’s content. And he could tell from Wilbur’s sad smile that he didn’t need to say it out loud, either.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “But you better fucking stay safe.”

“Thank you!” Wilbur flung himself forward to hug Phil, and Phil rapidly unfurled his wings to counterbalance the weight.

“Yeah, yeah. You probably just would have snuck out anyway if I’d told you no.”

“Yeah probably.” Wilbur chuckled. “Thank you anyway, though. I’ll try and make you proud. Be like you, and all that jazz.”

For half a second, Phil tried to entertain the idea of Wilbur acting like he did when he was younger. Reckless, needlessly brave, chasing after every adventure he could get his hands on with hardly a thought for the consequences. Seemed about right. Wilbur had inherited his chaos, that was for sure.

But Phil had always revelled in a fight, he was always chasing the adrenaline rush that came with an intense battle, and longed for the heart-dropping feeling he got when he dove into battle from high in the skies. Wilbur wasn’t like that, though. Wilbur was kind, and sweet, and, even in his chaos, was committed towards making the world a more peaceful place.

Violence had shaped Phil, made him a warrior.

But it wouldn’t do the same for Wilbur.

“Don’t be like me,” said Phil eventually, causing Wilbur to pull away from their hug. “Be yourself.”

The younger man scoffed. “Alright, Dadza.”

“I’m serious, Wil,” Phil pleaded, craning his neck to look his son in the eyes. “You’re a better man than I ever could be, and I want you to keep it that way, alright? Can you promise me that?”

“If you insist.” Wilbur’s tone was high and mocking, but Phil could pick up on the hint of sincerity in his voice, and knew that was enough.

* * *

It wasn’t.

It hadn’t been enough.

Why hadn’t Wilbur kept his promise?

The cold bit at Phil with a million tiny mouths, and he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was kneeling in the deep snow, soaked from the waist down.

When had he fallen?

Struggling to his feet, he made his way shakily to the house. If he could get inside, if he could get up to his bedroom, if he could grab one of Techno’s books, then he could busy his hands and distract himself.

“Hullo,” Techno greeted as the older man came through the door, but Phil could hardly hear him. Cats was still playing, he realized bitterly, and its cheerful tune seemed to mock Phil as he attempted to tune it out.

Don’t think, don’t listen, just focus. Climb the ladder. Ignore the noises, just climb.

The attic was a mess, as always, Techno’s various trinkets and gear piled haphazardly on top of rickety bookshelves that threatened to break under the sheer weight of it all.

Where was-- Book. Get a book. Do something, right now, before you can think.

Phil reached blindly for the nearest book, only to brush his hand on something much less solid that crumbled away beneath his touch. Blue, he realized. Ghostbur’s blue.

Hadn’t the spirit said that the blue sucked the sadness out of people?

Desperately, Phil grabbed the blue, clutching onto it like his life depended on it.

“Please, please,” he begged quietly, willing his memories to go away, but all he could picture was Ghostbur’s face as he handed him the blue, with a smile so familiar and yet so dreadfully distant, and a bright yellow sweater that couldn’t quite draw his attention away from the gaping hole through his chest--

“FUCK!” Phil’s voice broke as he hurdled the blue across the room and watched it skid on the wooden floor, crumbling into millions of tiny pieces. Distantly, he heard sounds from below him, Ranboo and Techno’s voices overlapping as they grew in worry, the sound of chairs being hurriedly pushed back as their occupants stood up, and above it all, the music from the jukebox, pushing its way through the din to sing its cheerful song.

The music should’ve stopped. Why hadn’t the music stopped?

* * *

“My L’Manburg, Phil! My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!”

Phil watched in horror as his son drew himself up from the ground where they’d fallen, eyes alight with a burning fire.

“If I can’t have it, no one can!” Wilbur’s voice was high and unsteady, so unlike the soft, musical voice Phil had loved so much.

“Oh my god.” 

Wilbur clambered to unsheathe his sword, hands shaky but determined. “Kill me, Phil,” he begged, and Phil realized with a dawning horror why he had placed the TnT so close to the button. “Phil, kill me. Phil, stab me with the sword. Murder me now. Kill me. Killza, Killza, do it!”

Phil recoiled in horror, away from the sword WIlbur was trying desperately to get him to grab. The younger man was grinning, an insane, wild grin, inching closer and closer, and Phil felt a flare of pain as his mangled wings brushed up against the cavern walls behind him.

“Kill me, Phil. Murder me,” continued Wilbur, and Phil felt the hilt of the sword be thrust into his hands. “Look, they all want you to!”

Reluctantly, Phil tore his gaze away from his son to look at the sizable crowd that had gathered on the outskirts of the crater. He couldn’t make out any faces, but he could only imagine the disdain they carried towards the man who had just blown up their home.

“Do it, Phil. Kill me,” Wilbur begged again.

“I can’t, Wil, you’re my--” Phil could hear his voice breaking, could feel the tears stinging in his eyes, but he didn’t care, all he cared about was Wilbur, standing in front of him, alone. “You’re my SON!”

“Phil, kill me!” Wilbur’s voice rose in pitch, taking on a desperate tone that Phil despised with every fiber in his body.

“I-- No matter what you-- Wil.” Now Phil was the one begging, gesturing wildly to the crater, trying with all his might to get the younger man to understand that he didn’t care about the destruction, that he’d travelled here to save his son, not a country. “No matter what you’ve done, I--”

Before he could finish, he felt Wilbur’s hand on his shoulder, pulling Phil back towards him, close to him, close enough that in any other scenario, Phil would have reached out to grab him back and hold him.

“Phil,” Wilbur’s voice was calmer now, and there were tears on his face too. “This isn’t-- It’s not-- Look!” He waved his hand out towards the crater in front of them. “Look how much work went into this, and it’s gone.”

And Phil understood, finally, what Wilbur had done. He had always been a creator, a builder; in all his chaos, there was something formed, something that would stay behind. And now, his son had just destroyed his own creation, his own love.

Wilbur was already gone.

No matter what Phil did now, his son was dead and gone. He’d wanted to go with his country, and if Phil didn’t kill him himself, he’d surely find someone else. Any sympathy or love he would have gotten from his friends had no doubt been blown to pieces with their country.

All that Phil could do was make sure that Wilbur died in loving arms.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but nothing came out.

“Do it.” 

The wind whistled through the cavern, and it seemed to Phil like it carried Wilbur’s voice with it.

_It’s been sixty weeks, since I saw Vienna._

He was holding his son in a sunlit field, listening to him sing to the birds.

_A bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face._

He was holding his son in a kitchen, making him promise to stay safe.

_I’ll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready,_

He was holding his son in a crumbling cavern, driving his sword slowly through his chest.

_And I’ll put down my roots when I’m dead._

* * *

Tears ran down Phil’s face as he clutched at the form in front of him, trying-- no, wishing-- that there was some way of reversing what he’d done, of fixing the hole he’d just made.

“Phil? Phil, focus on me.”

There were hands grabbing onto his own, holding him tight, and-- no, Wilbur was dead, he couldn’t be holding his hands, he was dead and gone and--

“Phil!”

The voice wasn’t Wilbur’s either, Phil realized, it was low, and comforting. And he wasn’t in a cavern, he was on a wood floor, and he was warm, and--

“Hey, Phil, look at me.”

Phil looked up, opened his eyes-- when did he close them?-- and saw a familiar, if very concerned, face.

“There we go,” said Techno, with a bittersweet smile. “Just focus on me.”

Phil tried, he really did, but it was hard. His vision was foggy and unfocused, Wilbur’s song still echoing in his ears, and all he could think about was the last threads of life leaving his son’s body.

“I-- Tech, I-- Wil, he’s dead, I-- My--” The words spilled from his mouth as he tried to tell Techno something, anything.

“Shhh, shh, don’t try to talk, just focus on me,” comforted Techno. “Just breathe in, and out, and focus on me, on my hands.”

And Phil did.

He breathed in.

And out.

And Techno’s hands were warm on his, squeezing tightly but not painfully so.

In.

Out.

Techno’s voice was warm too, low and deep and comforting.

In.

Out.

Slowly but surely, the room came into focus, bookshelves slotting themselves into their proper placements on the walls, the all-encompassing light of the lanterns fading into a soft glow, the grooves on the wooden floor untangling themselves.

In.

Out.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Techno’s voice seemed lighter than it was a minute ago, and Phil suddenly realized he was lying on the floor, and Techno was crouched next to him in what had to be an incredibly uncomfortable position.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” mumbled Phil, attempting to sit up. 

“Don’t-- Phil, I didn’t think you had a panic attack up here for fun, you don’t need to apologize.”

“But I--” Phil cut himself off before he could apologize again. “I’m just-- This isn’t my job, it’s not-- I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Well I should hope this isn’t your job, these aren’t exactly great workin’ conditions.” A note of amusement had entered Techno’s voice, but his eyes still sparkled with worry.

Phil chuckled in spite of himself. “No, I just-- I’m supposed to be the one doing the comforting, y’know? When your voices are getting all loud, or Ranboo’s all stressed, or Wilbur…”

He trailed off, trying not to think of all the things Wilbur needed comforting about, all the things he hadn’t given him comfort about.

“You can still need comfortin’, Phil,” Techno said softly. “Just because you’re busy bein’ a therapist, or Dadza, or good ol’ Mr. Minecraft; that doesn’t mean you can’t feel things yourself.”

Phil stayed silent, unsure of what to say, but Techno filled in the gaps, like Phil had for him many times before.

“Let me hold you, Phil.”

And Phil did.

And Techno was warm, and comforting, and smelled like woodsmoke and pine and everything that made Techno Techno. It was better than any campfire, or thick cloaks, or hot tea on a cold winter night, because it was Techno, and he was here, and they were so together.

Distantly, Phil realized it had been a long time since he had been hugged.

They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the cold wooden floor, silent because they didn’t need to say anything. Eventually they untangled as a clattering from below them reminded them that they were not quite alone in the house.

“Poor Ranboo,” remarked Phil, shifting slightly away from Techno to sit on his own. “Probably scared him shitless earlier, barging in like that.”

Techno chucked. “Don’t worry about the kid, he jumps every time I close a door. You’d think he’d be used to the sound of doors closin’ by now, but maybe he just didn’t grow up with ‘em. I’m not gonna judge.”

“God, you’re weird sometimes,” laughed Phil, and Techno laughed with him. “Still, I should go apologize--”

“Philza Minecraft, if you try and apologize one more time, I’m gonna punt you out the window.”

“Alright, no more apologies.” Phil sighed, but he couldn’t deny that he already felt lighter. “Thank you, mate.”

Techno hummed softly in response, and Phil reached out to grab his hand. He’d never been one for verbally expressing emotion, not when it was better said in the swing of a sword against a hidden mob, or the hours spent pouring over maps together, or the shining glint of the emerald hanging from his neck. But as he reached out to Techno, he knew damn well what he meant.

_I love you, he said silently._

And Techno grabbed his hand back, squeezing tight but not too tight, and Phil knew what he meant.

_I love you too._

**Author's Note:**

> you should follow me on tumblr @lesbiantechno  
> pls i need clout


End file.
